


Dragon and Rabbit

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ian saves the day, Tom is Bad News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>n this AU of my AU, Mary never does go back to work at that fateful clinic; therefore, she never faces off against the drug thieves, never gets kidnapped, and does not die an untimely albeit heroic death.  She and John and Sherlock live to a ripe old age together, and Ian grows into an amazing young Watson.</p><p>Thanks to my dear friend Sweetmarly, who gave me a number of excellent and intriguing suggestions; for example, that in this universe, Ian be the one to foil Tom’s nefarious plans.  For the story of “the Tom fiasco” in my original AU, see my other work, "The Other Doctor Watson"; Tom's story in that AU is told in "Rabbit, Rabbit".</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Rabbit Meets Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> n this AU of my AU, Mary never does go back to work at that fateful clinic; therefore, she never faces off against the drug thieves, never gets kidnapped, and does not die an untimely albeit heroic death. She and John and Sherlock live to a ripe old age together, and Ian grows into an amazing young Watson.
> 
> Thanks to my dear friend Sweetmarly, who gave me a number of excellent and intriguing suggestions; for example, that in this universe, Ian be the one to foil Tom’s nefarious plans. For the story of “the Tom fiasco” in my original AU, see my other work, "The Other Doctor Watson"; Tom's story in that AU is told in "Rabbit, Rabbit".

I  
He watched as Molly wended her way gracefully between tables through the crowded restaurant, appreciating her many womanly virtues. Tom had originally taken notice of the pathologist when gossip around St. Bart’s reached his ears that she had inherited a great deal of money from an elderly aunt, as well as a fabulous new flat in a prime location. Cautiously, he had only ventured to ask her out on a date when these rumours were confirmed as true. But now he had to admit to himself that Molly Hooper had many admirable assets of her own that she had not (presumably) inherited from the rich relative. He felt quite pleased with himself—he had certainly come out on top in this relationship!

Then he noticed with foreboding that she was holding the hand of a person so short that his blond head was barely to be seen above the tables. Leaning down, she spoke to this small person with an indulgent, loving smile. Damn. The Watson child. 

Thus far, Tom had been able to avoid meeting Molly’s friends in person, but no one could work at Bart’s for long without coming to recognize Sherlock Holmes and the Watsons Three on sight. A feeling of dread crept over him.

“Hello, darling!” Molly greeted him brightly with a kiss, as if bringing a three-year-old Watson on a date was perfectly normal and acceptable behaviour. “This is Ian, my little Bear.” She giggled down at Ian, who scrunched up his nose in protest.

“I not a Bear!” he declared indignantly. “I a Watson!”

Molly chuckled. “My little nephew, then. Oh, but I’ve called you My Little Bear since you were a baby, haven’t I? Ian, this is my friend Tom.”

“Hi,” said Ian as he surveyed Tom with a speculative eye and held out his hand expectantly. Tom, feeling utterly silly, shook hands with the child, but looked up at Molly, trying to keep his aggravation out of his expression.

“Um, why is he here? I mean, nice to meet him and all that, but . . . why?”

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Molly said nervously. “I didn’t think you’d mind. And you know I want you to get to know my friends. They’re . . . they’re very important to me.”

“I know, I know!” Tom back-pedalled quickly, trying to salvage things. “Of course, it’s important to me, as well. But, we’re having dinner with your friends tomorrow. I thought, you know, I’d have my sweet little bunny all to myself tonight.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Molly blushed sweetly. “I’m sorry, I ought to have called you first. But really, Tom, we’ve spent nearly every evening alone together for the past three months. The only exception was that weekend in Brighton when I met your family. I just. . . I thought it was time you met mine. I went to the Watsons’ flat today to see Ian’s volcano, and I thought it would be fun to bring him along with me. It’s been ages since he’s spent the night with me, and it’s my day off tomorrow. We can go to museums and have a brilliant time. And this way you two can really get acquainted. Tomorrow night it will be all adults, you know.”

The Watson child was spending the night! Tom struggled to tamp down his annoyance, well aware of Molly’s inordinate fondness for the boy. If he should try to make her choose between them, he felt quite certain Ian Watson would not be the loser.

“You’re right, it’s a good opportunity,” he managed to say, feeling rather pleased that he sounded sincere. “I’m sorry, it was just rather a surprise.”

As he spoke, a waiter brought a booster seat and Molly settled Ian into it. “What do you want for dinner, love?” she asked him.

“I a dwagon,” Ian informed her enigmatically. 

Without batting an eye, Molly turned to the waiter and ordered spaghetti and meatballs for her nephew and linguini for herself. Tom, frowning behind his menu, ordered the first thing that caught his eye and tried to get his face under control.

“I’ve got to go freshen up a bit,” Molly told him when the waiter had gone. “I’ll leave my two favourite men to get acquainted.” She smiled at him hopefully, as nervous in her manner as she had been on their first date. He smiled back reassuringly. He could not afford to lose her now—not tonight, when his careful cultivation of their relationship was about to pay off in a huge windfall of his own.

“So. Ian,” he ventured when she had gone. He had never tried to converse with a pre-schooler before and did not quite know how to go about it. “How old are you?”

“Almos’ four,” Ian replied loftily. “I big.”

This exchange depleted Tom’s entire repertoire of conversation with three-year-olds. He racked his brain for a new topic. “You’re a dragon today, then?”

Ian nodded sombrely. “A GOOD dwagon,” he amended. “I don’ eat humans. Only aminals. Like wabbits an’ chickens an’ pigs.”

“Oh, good,” Tom said, uncertain how to respond. “That’s . . . good.”

“I catch cwiminals wif my claws,” Ian continued, demonstrating with outstretched hands, his fingers bent into passable-looking talons. “I put ‘em in pwison.”

A crime-fighting dragon, Tom mused. “Ah,” he murmured. “I see.”

Ian regarded him with a long, serious look. Tom felt quite certain he was being weighed in the balance and found wanting. Unnerved, he muttered, “Shake your head, kid. Your eyes are stuck.”

“I ‘ducing, like Sh’ock,” he was informed, and Tom was struck with the realization that here was a child who had spent his entire life in the presence of an ingenious sociopath. He sat in silence, unable to come up with a viable method of deflecting the boy’s penetrating gaze.

“My dad’s a hero,” Ian spoke up at last, his blue eyes warm with feeling. “He beats cwiminals.”

Tom had often seen the short, friendly, former-army doctor at the hospital. He’d heard the rumours, of course, that the seemingly mild-mannered, unassuming John Watson was actually a dangerous man, but he’d never given the stories any credence. “I thought your dad was a doctor,” he remarked casually.

Ian nodded. “He a doctor, too. He makes people well. An’ he safes people. But mos’ly, he beats cwiminals.” He continued to regard Tom with a measured look. “My Uncle Sh’ock beats cwiminals, too,” the boy stated gravely. “He an insulting ‘tective.”

Not liking the direction the conversation was going, Tom smirked a bit, trying to take control. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Helps your dad do hero things, does he?”

The child frowned, apparently not appreciating Tom’s tone. They sat in unsettled silence for some moments as Ian continue to stare at Tom with a sombre expression, utterly discomfiting him.

“My Papa Gweg puts bad people in pwison,” he spoke at last. The child seemed determined to drive the point home that the family business was crime-fighting.

Tom was not at all happy with the tenor of this conversation, particularly given the illegal activities he had planned for that night. He tried to change the subject. “Your mother is a doctor, too, isn’t she?” Surely the mother was a safe topic—an ordinary G.P.

Ian agreed. “Mum was a doctor. Now she take care of us. She jus’ beats cwiminals for a . . . a hobby. That’s what Dad say. What a hobby is?” 

Tom was taken aback. “Um. Something you do for fun?” he suggested, and Ian nodded, satisfied. Mrs Watson fights crime for fun? What sort of family were these people?

Growing more and more alarmed, desperately he said, “Well, your Aunt Molly at least doesn’t fight crime, does she? She just examines evidence.”

“Uh uh,” Ian shook his earnest little blond head. “Uncle Sh’ock say Aunt M’y catches cwiminals, too. One time she helpted my Mum catch some bad men in a bank. The bad men lockted them up inna safe, but they catched them anyways.” He looked quite pleased by the thought.

“Well, how are we getting on?” Molly’s voice came as a welcome relief to the flustered Tom.

“Oh, fine, fine,” he assured her with his best smile. “He’s a . . . a very interesting child.”

“Dad say Tom’s a wabbit,” Ian announced, apparently in the interest of full disclosure.

Molly looked as if she didn’t know whether to be amused or alarmed. “A rabbit? What do you mean?” Ian just shrugged.

“I’m sure John meant that you bring good luck,” Molly concluded, smiling nervously. “Right, Ian?” She was saved by the server bringing them their food. Ian dug into his spaghetti with a will.

“Dragons eat pasta, do they?” Tom said, trying to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere. Just one more night! If he could keep Molly happy just one more night, whatever happened afterwards wouldn’t matter. He would be rich, and keeping Molly would be a bonus, but no longer a necessity.

Ian looked at him scornfully. “Dwagons eat aminals. I tol’ you! This’s aminal insides.” He looked up at his Aunt Molly. “What it’s called?”

“Intestines,” the pathologist replied without turning a hair. Tom’s eyes widened. She was entirely undisturbed by the ghoulish little hooligan! 

Ian gave Tom a smile filled with wicked glee. He stabbed a meatball onto his fork dramatically. “This a eye!” he announced, and bit into it cheerfully. Tom swallowed, unnerved.

“Dwagons catch pigs an’ chickens an’ cows.” Ian looked at Tom slyly and grinned, spaghetti sauce dripping from his chin. “An’ wabbits.”

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Run, Rabbit, Run!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did John call Tom a rabbit? See my other AU, "The Other Doctor Watson"--Tom's story is told in "Rabbit, Rabbit."

“The rabbit wears a charming face.  
His private life is a disgrace.  
I really dare not name to you  
The dreadful things that rabbits do.”

 

The atrocious little poem kept running through Tom’s mind as he excused himself to go to the loo. Between bites of spaghetti, Ian had tried to quote this rhyme, mangling it badly, claiming his mother had taught it to him. Unfortunately, it was a poem Molly was familiar with and she had repeated it several times, giggling madly with her little nephew. She seemed not to make the connection between this insidious bit of poetry and Ian’s earlier statement: “Dad say Tom’s a wabbit.” 

To Tom, the message was unmistakable.

“They found me out,” he thought wildly, knowing even as he did so that he was being irrational. “Her friends found me out. They sent their son to spy on me.” He whipped out his mobile and punched in a number, pacing impatiently before the urinals as he waited for the recipient to pick up.

“What?” Chris, his partner in crime, snapped in his ear at last.

“We gotta call it off, mate,” Tom whispered desperately, his voice hoarse with emotion. “The Watsons know something. One of them is spending the night with Molly and me. It’s too risky. We gotta call it off.”

But Chris Randall had not become an accomplished jewel thief without learning to do his homework. “Which Watson?” he asked suspiciously.

“The, uh,” Tom stuttered, feeling a fool, “the, uh, the youngest one.”

Chris responded with a strongly-worded and rather profane diatribe against all cowards and idiots, Tom being the prime example of both. “You’re terrified of a four-year-old?” he taunted sarcastically. Tom felt properly blistered, his skin hot with shame. He decided that now was not the time to correct Chris by informing him that Ian Watson was, in fact, only three.

“He’s really clever,” he insisted in a very small voice. “But the point is, the Watsons suspect something! I just don’t think it’s worth taking the chance . . . .”

Chris interrupted with a blast of enraged cursing that had Tom holding the mobile a foot from his ear. “If you bollocks this up I will end you, do you understand?” he growled in conclusion. “I will bury you, dig you back up, and then kill you and stomp on your cold, useless body—in that order!”

“But,” Tom said. And that was all he said, because Chris was not finished.

“This is the one night we know beyond doubt that the building will be deserted. You will stick to the plan. Drug the kid as well as your girlfriend if you’re afraid he’ll be awake at one in the morning. You’re a pharmacist, you moron! Why do I even have to tell you this?”

Tom meekly rang off and wandered back to his table, lightheaded with a wild mix of anxiety and fear. Ian the Dragon had finished his “intestines with eyeballs” and was gleefully slurping down a jelly.

“This made fwom aminal bones,” the little ghoul was pleased to inform Tom. It did not make Tom feel any better to realize that the kid was quite right about that. Far too clever for his own good, this small Watson.

000

After an interminable evening of playing “Snakes and Ladders” and reading Grimm’s fairy tales (why was it always a child who defeated the villain in these stories?) the boy was finally put to bed in the guest room. It had been by far the most frustrating evening of Tom’s life. What kid refuses hot cocoa? Tom had repeatedly offered Ian beverages of all kinds, the little vial of sedative at the ready to pour into the cup; but Ian was full of animal by-products and showed no interest in ingesting anything further. Tom longed for some sort of blood-coloured fruit juice to entice the young dragon, but Molly had nothing so useful on hand. He considered pouring the drug into plain water to set by Ian’s bedside, but knew the taste would put the boy off.

The child safely asleep, Tom poured Molly and himself each a glass of red wine, liberally dosing hers with the sedative. Handing it to her, he sat down beside her on the couch with a sigh. “Quite a handful, that one. I’ll bet you can really use this. I know I need one.” He took a generous sip from his glass.

“Oh, you can have mine, too, then,” Molly smiled, giving the cup back. “I don’t want to be impaired while Ian’s here. I feel so responsible when he’s with me. If anything should happen to him, I just couldn’t bear it.” With that, she got up and started checking the locks on the windows and door and making certain knives and other dangerous objects were up out of reach of an inquisitive three-year-old. “John and Sherlock’s work is so dangerous—we have to be constantly vigilant that Ian isn’t kidnapped and used against them in some way,” she explained as she worked. “We’re all very careful of him.”

“Of course,” he said with deliberate calm. Inside, Tom was roaring with frustration and despair. Everything was going wrong! All of his hopes had been cantered on this night, and it was all falling apart. And he would not even get the chance to bemoan the loss of the fortune the stolen jewels were to have brought him, because Chris was going to murder him before another day dawned.

They went to bed, and Tom lay beside the softly snoring Molly absolutely vibrating with nerves as he waited for Chris to buzz the intercom. Several times he thought he heard it, only to find he was clearly hallucinating. The stress was more than he could take. How would he survive the night without suffering a heart attack?

Buzz. He nearly leapt out of his skin when the summons came at last. Molly stirred and started to rise.

“Go to sleep. I’ll get it,” he said soothingly. “It has to be a mistake, anyway, this time of night.” She mumbled something sleepily and curled back up beneath the duvet. Hope rose within Tom’s breast against his better judgement—perhaps the plan would work after all! 

Letting Chris into the building, opening the door of the flat for him, and showing him the correct window in the dining room was the work of a few minutes. Neither man spoke— each knew his part of the job and did not need to discuss it. Chris made short work of the safety mechanism on the window and slid it silently open. Outside the window, the brickwork of the building formed a perfect stairway to the roof. Molly’s flat was on the top floor of the tallest building on the block: no CCTV cameras could catch their actions so far above the street. The jewel thief climbed onto the sill and stepped gingerly onto the ledge. Then Tom heard a soft shuffling sound behind him.

Nothing could have looked more innocent and harmless than Ian Watson, in his little footed pyjamas and his blond hair standing up from his head like a mussy halo. He was rubbing his eyes with dimpled fists, and Tom stood frozen in utter terror.

What to do? Grab the child and gag him to stop him rousing Molly? Or shut the window and hope the boy hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary? After a second’s hesitation, Tom hopefully opted for the second course of action, turning his back on the child for an instant as he slid the window quickly shut, then turned back to Ian—but the dining room was now empty.

After a moment of paralyzed panic, Tom stepped lightly to Molly’s bedroom and peeked in. She was alone and still asleep. Relief flooded him until he nearly sagged to the floor. But where had that pesky child gone? Tom looked into the guest room, but Ian was not in his bed. He was not under the bed, either, or in the wardrobe or behind the dressing table. Exasperated, Tom went next to the bathroom, but no three-year-olds were hiding in the shower or using the loo. There was a complete dearth of Ians in the sitting room—he was not behind the couch, under the coffee table, or ensconced behind Tom’s Belstaff overcoat, which was hanging on a hook by the door. No Ian in the dining room—there really was no place in that area to hide even the smallest human being. That left only one room. Tom lurched into the kitchen and switched on the light, ready to pounce on the brat. But the kitchen was entirely devoid of all life. Dizzy with swirling emotions, Tom poured a glass of water and sipped, trying to calm himself.

And then the realization hit him—he had not locked the flat door after letting Chris inside! The treacherous imp obviously sneaked out when Tom’s back was turned. Panicking again, he flew to the door and threw it open. Of course, the corridor was empty. Where in this enormous building could the child have gone?

And then Tom smiled. It was not his problem, was it? Molly would believe the clever toddler had unlocked the door and escaped on his own. And now the boy was out of the way—Chris could climb back in through the window with their loot without danger of being caught by a three-year-old spy. Tom’s outlook on life was looking up. They were going to get away with the jewel heist after all.

He returned to the sitting room and collapsed on the sofa, checking the time. By now, Chris would have made it across the rooftops to the skylight in the jewellery shop’s building. He might already be sawing through the store owner’s office ceiling from the first floor. Tom estimated another hour before the jewel thief returned; Chris would turn off the security alarms and cameras from inside the office, fill his pillowcase with the stuff that dreams are made on, clean up his sawdust mess, reset the alarms and cameras, and replace the ceiling tiles as he left. And then they would be rich. In reality, is was Chris, wasn’t it, who was taking the great risks and doing all the hard work. All Tom had to do now was let his partner back in through the window. Surely nothing else could go wrong now. He allowed himself to relax and imagined himself counting out the money they would receive from the sale of the jewels.

The door to the flat flew open and a grim-faced, silver-haired man, possessed of an icy determination and a handgun, strode into the room with an attitude of great purpose. Tom jumped to his feet like a startled rabbit, his mouth hanging wide open.

“Don’t move!” the stranger commanded. Tom didn’t.


	3. Ian Saves the Day

“Who are you?” demanded the grey-haired man with an air of authority, weapon in hand. “What are you doing here?” 

This intruder was perhaps twenty years older and several inches shorter than Tom, but these facts did not lead the pharmacist to feel himself to be at any advantage whatsoever. The fierce brown eyes drilled into Tom’s, and he couldn’t help but wonder why this man should feel the need for a handgun when his intense glare could no doubt kill a man at forty paces.

Tom gathered himself and tried to convey indignation with his tone. “I should be asking that of you! Who are you to come breaking into this flat?”

The stone-faced man silently flashed a badge which declared him to be D.I. Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Ah, Ian’s “Papa Gweg” who puts bad people in “pwison”. Tom found himself being grasped by one shoulder in an iron grip and propelled along with the police detective. He was highly aware of the gun Lestrade held, pointing now to the floor, but very large and very real. “What have you done with Ian?” Lestrade demanded, casting about, visually searching the sitting room and dining area while holding onto his quarry.

“I . . . I. . . I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom stuttered, trying to control his trembling legs.

“Molly! Ian!” Lestrade shouted, pushing Tom ahead of him as he strode down the hallway to the bedrooms. Molly appeared, looking alarmed and dishevelled, pulling a dressing gown on over her nightdress.

“Greg? What on earth! What’s happened?” she cried, distressed.

“Ian called me on your phone. Said there was a strange man in your flat,” Lestrade replied tersely, still gripping Tom’s shoulder firmly. “Are you all right? Where’s Ian?” 

Molly flew into the guest bedroom in a panic. “He’s not in his bed! Tom, where’s Ian?” she asked desperately. Tom could not help but note that his loving girlfriend did not question the fact that a detective from Scotland Yard was holding him at gunpoint.

“You know this man?” Lestrade asked her. At her nod, he released Tom’s shoulder and holstered his weapon. “Sorry, mate.” Tom did not think the D.I. sounded sorry.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Molly replied absently. She had other, more pressing things on her mind. She whirled through the guest room, looking under the bed, in the closet, behind the bureau. “Tom, where’s Ian?” she demanded urgently, as if he could magically make the wayward child appear. 

He thought fast. “Erm, I went into the kitchen to, you know, get a glass of water, and Ian came in and he, uh, saw me and then, uh, he left. Maybe he forgot who I am and thought I was a stranger? Maybe he was walking in his sleep?”

“And swiping Molly’s phone and calling me in his sleep?” Lestrade said, looking suspicious. “And unlocking the door in his sleep? It was open when I arrived! Lord, we’re going to have to search the building.” He whipped out his mobile and dialled.

“And that’s another thing!” Tom declared to Molly, trying to deflect the attention from himself. “Why would the boy call this chap instead of waking you up if he was scared? Or call his parents?” He was all-too-aware of the Scotland Yard Chap talking to his Sergeant in the background. Apparently the Sergeant had brought a team to Molly’s address and Lestrade was ordering them to organize a search.

“That’s how he’s been taught,” Molly explained as she ducked into the bathroom and looked behind the shower curtain. “If an emergency comes up and he’s not with his parents, he’s to call Greg first.”

“He the fastes’,” a small voice came from behind them. “He gots a siren.”

“Ian!” Molly cried, scooping the boy up. “Where were you? You scared me!”

“I hidded. Gweg say to hide, so I hidded under you bed,” Ian said matter-of-factly. Tom silently cursed himself. He’d searched everywhere in the flat but Molly’s room, believing that if the boy had gone in there he would have naturally awakened his aunt.

“Stand by,” Lestrade said into his phone, and then turned to the child. “Good work, little man. You followed orders like a proper officer,” he said warmly. Tom was struck by the contrast between the terrifying, stern-faced D.I. and this kindly, grandfather-figure lovingly smiling at the small Watson.

“Why didn’t you wake me if you were scared, darling?” Molly asked the child, hugging him tightly.

Ian took on an insulted air. “I not scared,” he declared stoutly. Tom had not been aware that a pre-schooler could be capable of this level of scorn. “The bad man goed away. He goed out the window.”

Panic seized Tom, nearly paralyzing him. “No, you just saw me pass by the window, on the way to the kitchen, yeah?” he prompted hastily. Damn, his voice was shaking!

Ian wrinkled his nose impatiently. If Tom had but known it, the expression was very like one that a certain “insulting ‘tective” was known to have when people were being stupid. “You not pass the window. You shutted the window. When the bad man goed out.” Stubbornly, the boy reiterated, “He comed in the door and goed out the window.”

All three adults were now frozen in place, Lestrade and Molly staring at Tom and Tom staring at Ian. The pharmacist was acutely aware that any disparaging remark aimed towards the three-year-old would only serve to raise the other adults’ suspicions of him even further. Carefully he said, “The kid was half-asleep. He didn’t know what he was seeing. Or he was having a dream.”

Molly’s face was a study in confusion. Plainly, she was accustomed to believing her small nephew, but she wanted to believe her boyfriend as well. Lestrade looked at her silently, apparently willing to take his cues from her. Tom realized that if Molly insisted that her boyfriend was trustworthy, Scotland Yard Chap would accept her judgement and leave. “Look,” he began in a reasoning tone, “after he heard the intercom buzz, the boy assumed someone came in. It’s a natural thing to assume. And then he imagined he saw someone.”

Ian was incensed. “I not a sume! I a Watson!” he asserted sternly, then turned to his aunt. “What a sume is?”

Molly sighed. “It’s when you believe something happened from the evidence, even though you didn’t see it happen,” she explained.

“I not a sume,” Ian repeated insistently. “I SEE. Wif my EYES!”

“He didn’t imagine the door being unlocked,” Lestrade reminded Tom, looking at him with suspicion.

The intercom buzzed, a welcome interruption. “That will be John and Mary,” the D.I. said to Molly. “I called them right after Ian rung off with me.” Molly put her nephew into the detective’s arms and went to push the button to let her friends into the building. 

Meanwhile, Lestrade cuddled with his grandson. “Who’s my best investigator?” he said in such a tender, kindly voice that Tom blinked, hard put to believe that this was the same man who nearly slew him with a look just a moment earlier. 

“Me!” Ian cried proudly, his face alight with pride.

Scotland Yard Chap smiled broadly. “That’s right! Now, Ian, I want you to show us which window the stranger climbed out of, all right?” He set the boy on his feet and then took Tom by the arm. “We want to see with our eyes, too, don’t we, Tom?” He gave his captive a long, hard look. 

Tom valiantly tried not to drag his feet as the steely grip of the Scotland Yard Chap drew him inexorably towards the damning window. He tried to cover his involuntary wince as the unlocked window slid easily open. He especially tried hard not to cower under the withering stare of a vindicated three-year-old. Lestrade was on his phone again, barking orders. Now the entire block was sealed off. An intruder would have no chance of exiting the roof at any point unseen.

Molly joined them, gasping in horror. “The alarm didn’t go off! If the window is opened, the alarm is supposed to go off. Why didn’t the alarm go off?”

Lestrade showed her the almost invisible cut through the almost hidden wires beneath the window sill. “It was left unbolted, too. And look at these black marks on the sill. Shoe marks, I should say. The brickwork outside here makes a perfect stair to the roof. From there, you can get anywhere on this block.”

“I checked the windows and the door before I went to bed, Greg,” Molly assured him grimly. “You know how careful I am about Ian. I would never put him at risk by being careless.” She now levelled a puzzled look at Tom. “You saw me—you saw me check the locks.”

He nodded eagerly. “Right! I saw you, and everything was locked up tight!” he agreed. “This is a mystery, all right. I wonder if someone broke in while we were asleep. . . .”

“You were very quick to answer the intercom when it buzzed earlier,” his girlfriend said suspiciously. “Who was it?”

Put on the defensive once more, he insisted, “I told you—it was a mistake. Some drunk pushed the wrong button.”

“And then you never came back to bed,” she continued, her face growing hard.

“I told you! I was thirsty. I went to get a glass of water. . . .”

Her lips pressed together in a firm line. “You were gone ages longer than it takes to get a drink of water.”

“I needed the loo. . . .”

Scotland Yard chose that moment to put in his tuppence. “You were just sitting there on the couch when I came in.”

Tom’s mind raced, desperately searching for a solution. “Erm, okay, okay, you got me. I did let a, a, a mate in. He, he, he, uh . . . he has a bet with, with, with a friend of his that, that, that he could, you know, break into his flat without being seen. A big bet! Yeah, and he said he’d go halves with me if I’d help him win this bet.”

He was met with disbelieving stares; and then a dry baritone, dripping with sarcasm, came from the entryway behind him. “If you can’t lie any more convincingly than that, you should give up this life of crime.”

Tom turned and, for a surreal and startling second, thought he was looking into a full-length mirror. It seemed his own dark curls topping his own tall, slim figure confronted him from the dim doorway, wearing his own beloved Belstaff overcoat. And then the apparition moved and morphed into the familiar form of Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock! I’m glad you’re here!” Scotland Yard Chap said warmly.

“Of course you are,” the detective said suavely, and with great dignity pried two small arms from around his knees and picked up the three-year-old who belonged to them. “Hello, Ian. Catching criminals tonight, are we?”

“I the best ‘vestigator,” Ian informed him, pleased. “Where Mum and Dad?”

“They had some difficulty getting a cab at two in the morning,” his uncle told him. “They’ll be here soon. They asked me come ahead, as I live closer to Molly than they do.” Then: “When is your ‘friend’ slated to return?” Sherlock asked Tom directly. 

The erstwhile thief sighed and looked at his one-time girlfriend. Her face was stormy and growing red with embarrassed anger, and she would not look at him. Was there really any point to trying to squirm out of this any longer? Chris was going to be caught, one way or another, and would certainly not hesitate to incriminate his willing accomplice. Tom looked at his watch. “I expect he’ll be here in about fifteen minutes now,” he admitted.

“My people are being discreet. I don’t imagine he’ll realize you’ve been caught,” Lestrade told him. “He’ll try to leave the building the same way he came. Molly, turn off the lights, please,” He said this with a gentle, understanding tone, and she fled to the light switch, seeming grateful for something to do. “Sherlock, you’re the same height and build as Tom--put on Tom’s dressing gown and be ready to open the window to the chap. He won’t realize you’re not his accomplice until he’s already safely inside.”

Sherlock began to protest, until Ian said, “Doncha wanna help beat cwiminals?” His uncle then obediently shed his Belstaff and hung it on a hook beside Tom’s identical overcoat with a grim expression.

It was far too late by the time Tom remembered the vials of sedative he had left in the pockets of his dressing gown. Sherlock, having slipped his arms into the sleeves and his hands into the pockets, then closed his hand over the incriminating evidence and pulled them into view.

“Molly,” he said quietly, handing them over to her. She turned the lights on again and looked at the labels on the vials. Tom, horrified, could see the last puzzle pieces coming together in her mind as she obviously remembered his clumsy attempts at pushing beverages that evening. And she flew into a fury. 

Shoving the sedatives back into Sherlock’s grasp, she rushed back across the room at Tom and slapped him, hard. His ears rang. “How dare you! How dare you try to drug a child—my precious boy? How dare you endanger him? How dare you try to drug me?” 

“Molly! I just. . . . I do care about you, Molly. . . .” he stammered stupidly.

She slapped him a second time. “And how dare you put Ian into danger by letting a stranger into my flat?” She whirled on her heel, picked up her nephew, and stalked out of the room, head held high.

The three men stood in a stunned silence for long second, frozen with the shocking sight of an infuriated Molly. Tom felt with regret that she had never looked so beautiful to him as she had in that moment.

“Erm. If I cooperate do you think I’ll get a shorter sentence?” Tom ventured at last.

“Shut up,” Lestrade growled gruffly as he handcuffed him and silently turned off the lights.

000

Thirty minutes later, Tom watched as his partner-in-crime was led out of the flat door in handcuffs between two officers. He regretfully eyed the pillowcase full of jewels following after, safely in the hands of the D.I.’s sergeant. He looked silently at his lovely ex-girlfriend, who was earnestly giving her statement to the Scotland Yard Chap. He frowned at Lestrade, who was looking at Molly with a tender expression as he listened intently to her.

He felt a tug at his sleeve. Looking down at the source of all his woes, Tom felt suddenly relieved that he was soon going to be taken to Scotland Yard. At least, in prison, there would be no three-year-old dragons to torment him.

“Bye-bye, wabbit,” Ian Watson said soberly. “Maybe if you stop bein’ a cwiminal, you can get out of pwison soon.”

“I’ll, uh, yeah, I’ll work on that,” Tom said, feeling dazed. What had ever possessed him to get involved with this family? He marched meekly to the patrol car, ready to pay for his crimes.


End file.
